


you are what you eat (and you know what that is)

by coloredink



Series: The Cinnamon Peeler [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cannibalism, John is a Saint, M/M, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, mild cannibalism and nobody dies, the author is not joking about the cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wanted John right down to the amino acids that made up his body, and he wanted them in his own body.</p><p>(<a href="http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9375219/1/Eres-lo-que-comes-y-sabes-qu%C3%A9-es">Spanish</a> translation available.)</p><p>(<a href="http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/you-are-what-you-eat-and-you-know-what-that-is-audiobook">Audiofic</a> and <a href="http://www.audiofic.jinjurly.com/you-are-what-you-eat-and-you-know-what-that-is">mp3</a> available.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are what you eat (and you know what that is)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=26206782#t26206782), which requested mild cannibalism.

Sherlock flung open the door to the washroom so hard that it bounced off the wall on the opposite side. "John!"

John jerked. "Agh, shit!" He fumbled and ripped off a handful of toilet roll, held it to his face. He glared at Sherlock. "Dammit, Sherlock, how many times have I told you--"

Sherlock stared. John's blood spread through the tissue like fire licking up the sides of a newspaper, soaking through the fibres and creeping outward. He still held the razor in his right hand. Sherlock wanted to lick it.

" _What?_ " John demanded.

Sherlock leaned forward--it was involuntary, like breathing or blinking. Now he could smell it, faint under the smell of processed forest product and shaving foam: coppery, salty, _John_. John leaned away a little, looking slightly unnerved.

"Can I have that?" he breathed.

"Have what--" John's eyes flicked downward, and Sherlock was fascinated by that, too, the play of muscle and tendon that allowed the eye to move like that. "What, this bit of paper?"

"Yes."

"What do you--no, you know what, I don't want to know." John sighed and took the paper away from his face. He peered at himself in the mirror. "All right, it's mostly stopped bleeding. Here."

Sherlock cupped the bit of paper in his hand and went away. He took it into his room, where he sniffed it, licked it, and finally bit it, tearing away a little morsel of blood-soaked tissue. It was unpleasant to chew, tough and fibrous and woody, and he could barely taste John underneath it. But he knew it was there: John's red blood cells, John's antibodies, John's plasma. John.

\-----

It wasn't good, of course. Sherlock knew that.

But John was good, and he loved John, and he loved John so much he wanted to eat him. Just a little bit. A little taste, because he loved John and didn't want to hurt him. He just wanted John right down to the amino acids that made up his body, and he wanted them in his own body, broken down and built up again, so that he could walk around knowing that some of his cells were made up of John. That John was with him on a molecular level. Only seven years, until his body rebuilt itself, but seven years would be enough.

But that was more than a Bit Not Good, wasn't it?

So he didn't say anything, because it was important that he have all of John, cooking risotto and running alongside him and spread out in Sherlock's bed, and if John knew about this he'd go.

\-----

John's footsteps were slow and measurably uneven on their way up the steps. A bad day at the clinic, then. Perhaps he should move the dead owl from the kitchen table. While he was at it, he could get the kettle started; John would want some tea.

Sherlock remained on the couch.

"What a day," John moaned as the door shut behind him. He stripped off his coat and threw it onto the chair rather than hanging it up, a sure sign that he was exhausted, and stumped into the kitchen. "I'm shattered--what is _this?_ Well, whatever it is, I'm binning it." And he did so, with a feathery, rustling _thump_. That was fine; Sherlock was done with it, anyway.

John proceeded to clatter around the kitchen then--making tea, from the sounds of it--and ramble on about work. Sherlock wasn't sure why John persisted in talking to him about his day when Sherlock hardly ever replied, and when he did it was inevitably something scathing that filled John with indignation. Perhaps it was one of those things that normal people did, that normal _couples_ and _friends_ did. Sherlock liked that idea, that John thought of them this way; he liked _John_. So he listened, when John chuntered on about his day at the clinic, and took pleasure in it, because he took pleasure in everything that had to do with John.

"But the real icing was when this bloke came in with this nasty big mark on his forearm. He was embarrassed about it, not about how it'd gotten there but that he'd let it get infected, which, well, these things happen. I gave him antibiotics and sent him on his way, but do you know how it happened? Apparently he has this fetish, I forget the word, but he likes to fantasise about being eaten. And his girlfriend--sweet thing, I imagine--decided to try and oblige him one night, while they were in bed. Don't know why he felt the need to tell _me_ this. This isn't the strangest thing I've heard, not by far, but really, did he think I needed to know that to write him a prescription?"

But for once, Sherlock wasn't listening.

He was in bed, with John, inside John, so hot and tight and alive, and John's blood was in his mouth, John's skin was between his teeth, and _therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh_ , and John was shuddering underneath him, and he was inside John and John was inside him. Or wouldn't it be better, even better, if John were on top? Then, yes, he'd have John inside him _everywhere_ , deep inside every orifice, sliding down and thrusting up to join in the middle, and it would be _marvellous_. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Possibly he was going to cry from the very beauty of the idea. That would be interesting.

"Sherlock?"

John was standing over him, holding two mugs of tea, and when Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at him his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock quickly schooled his expression into one of indifference.

"Are you _hard?_ " John demanded.

Was he? Oh. Yes. He was. That was unusual. And John had sounded shocked, but not appalled, which was intriguing.

"What did you--is it arousing, hearing me talk about my day, or something?" His eyes narrowed, and Sherlock's heart leapt into an unsteady gallop. It was always exciting when John tried to apply Sherlock's methods. "No, you've never cared before. I wasn't even sure you were listening. It was that last one, the one with the girlfriend that tried to eat him." He cocked his head, brows furrowing; Sherlock was becoming lightheaded with adrenaline, and he wasn't even _moving_. "That's--well, you're often excited by. . . unconventional things, but this, that look on your face, that was different. Was it the. . . eating? What, do you want me to eat you? That doesn't seem like--" His eyes widened, oh John, sweet beautiful brilliant John, is this it? Are you going to figure it out? Oh please, John, please, please think, no, don't, because if you know you'll leave, and it'll end me if you go--

"Oh," John said. "Oh. I think I need to sit down for this." And he did, in his chair, setting both mugs on the floor. He put his elbows on his knees and laced both hands behind his neck. His mouth was thin line, tight at the corners. He took several deep breaths, in through his nose and out, and finally dropped his hands and looked at Sherlock, who had sat up on the couch and had both knees drawn up against his chest. "Do you want to eat me?"

"Just a bit," Sherlock whispered. "A very little bit. A taste. You wouldn't even miss it. I don't want to hurt you."

John winced. "You realise that's. Ah. That's contradictory."

Sherlock said nothing, because he was having trouble breathing.

"All right." John stood, knees creaking. "All right." He had both hands on his hips, and he wasn't looking at Sherlock. "I need. To go. Out. For some air."

"Your tea will get cold," Sherlock murmured.

John didn't answer. John was shrugging his coat back on, and leaving, and going down the stairs, and gone.

\-----

stupid stupid stupid you should know better you should have more control than that you knew it wasn't good you know that it's not good John is normal people John is never coming back would you go back to someone that said they wanted to eat you well maybe you would but you aren't John are you no you're stupid an idiot a right git some proper genius you are you can't even pretend to be normal for a duration long enough to make sure that people don't leave you stupid stupid stupid what will you do what can you do there's nothing nothing nothing this is it this is finished done over finis because you're not good you're not good not good not good not good not good so very not good and John doesn't want that he doesn't deserve it he deserves someone that doesn't think of him as edible in such a literal sense nobody wants that and certainly not John oh John please come back John please I was never going to eat you because you wouldn't want that because it's not good and you're good and you make me good John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John John

please

\-----

Some hours later, footsteps ascended the stairs again--still slow, but no longer uneven--but Sherlock paid them no attention because that could not possibly be John Watson. They could be Mrs. Hudson (no; far too heavy) or Mycroft (exceedingly unlikely; what would Mycroft be doing here?) or Lestrade (a possibility, but too slow; Lestrade only ever charges up those stairs), but certainly not John ( _John_ ) because John wouldn't come back to live with his lover, the aspiring cannibal.

Sherlock curled himself into a tighter ball and burrowed his face into the back of the sofa.

The light turned on. "Have you been lying here in the dark?" Rustle: that would be the coat, being taken off and hung properly on its hook. Footsteps: one two three four five, coming closer. "You haven't even moved."

He has too. He fell over onto his side at one point. Then he rolled over.

Warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. " _Sherlock_."

Sherlock looked up. That was really John, dear John, with the blue eyes that looked brown and the dirty blond hair and the lines all over his face. He breathed in, because there were particles of John in the air and he wanted them in his lungs, caught in his cilia. "John."

"Yes," John acknowledged, wry, and he sat back down in his chair, where there were still two mugs of now extremely cold tea by his feet. "We need to talk about this."

Sherlock did not reply. There was nothing to talk about. John was going to leave. Why did he insist on torturing Sherlock with conversations about his imminent departure?

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock rolled over so that he was facing John, because he did still love John and wanted to do things for him. And he did enjoy looking at John, and now that John was going to leave he ought to look his fill.

John took a deep breath. He was leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his thighs. He was wearing a collared button-up with a dark blue jumper over it, one of the cashmere ones that Sherlock had bought him, because he couldn't stand looking at John wearing shapeless oatmeal-coloured things any longer. (Although he loved the shapeless oatmeal-coloured things too, because they were _John's_ , but now that John was _his_ he also wanted John to wear things that looked good on him, and that were soft to the touch.) He was wearing a pair of the chinos that he often wore to work, and brown shoes. Sherlock memorised everything and put it in the folder marked Do Not Delete, where he put everything that had to do with John. In fact, John had a subfolder all to himself.

"So," said John. "This thing. This cannibalism thing." He stumbled a little bit over the word "cannibalism." "How serious is it? I mean, you said a taste."

Sherlock nodded. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, very earnestly, because it was very important that John understood. "I just want you. In every way possible."

"Right. I see." John nodded, looking serious and thoughtful, and Sherlock was alarmed because this wasn't anything he wanted John to _see_ , not really. It was dangerous in Sherlock's head. "So, anything. . . specific?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Blood won't do it for you, I suppose."

Sherlock shook his head.

"All right." John blew out a breath and ran one hand over his head, and Sherlock was arrested by the movement of his arm, the angle of his elbow, the curve of fingers and palm over the curve of his skull. "So. This can happen. But it'll happen on my terms."

It took too long--far too long--for Sherlock to parse what John had just said, because it could not possibly mean what he thought it meant. Then he sat up. "What?"

John held up a finger. "Firstly, _I_ get to pick what part of me you'll eat."

Sherlock nodded, dumbly. He was sure his mouth was hanging open, and that he looked like a slack-jawed bystander at a crime scene.

"Secondly, well, I guess there's no second, really, other than that you're going to listen to me before, during, and after every aspect of this." John looked quite grim, like he had his gun in his hand and they were about to walk into a warehouse filled with armed smugglers. "And that this is only going to happen once. This, and never again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, then licked his lips and said, "Yes."

"All right." John sat back in his chair. "All right, then. Now that's sorted, I--"

But John couldn't quite get out of his seat just yet, because Sherlock abruptly needed to be on his knees before John, arms wrapped around his waist and face in his lap, whispering _thank you thank you thank you_ , because he had never thought his life would turn out like this.

\-----

The next week, Sherlock came home from giving a statement at New Scotland Yard to find John sprawled on the sofa looking relaxed and their kitchen table looking tidy. In the middle of the large clear spot--Sherlock's experimental detritus having been shoved to the far end--was a custard dish with a plate over it. Sherlock lifted the plate.

He stopped breathing.

"Abdominal fat," John called from the sitting room. "Not very romantic, but practical."

Sherlock's reaction was immediate and forceful

  

  * outrage (How _dare_ John cut into himself without Sherlock present! _Had_ John done this himself? Or had someone helped him? That was even worse.)
  

  * lust (Flooding his senses, making his knees weak; he had never wanted John more than he did at this moment, he wanted to _eat him_ \--and look, now he had the opportunity!)
  

  * concern (Dear God, John was cracked, wasn't he? As cracked as Sherlock himself, and that was terrible, because nobody ought to be like Sherlock.)
  

  * amazement ( _John_ John John John John _John_ , wonderful, spectacular John, who was so perfectly ordinary and yet like no one Sherlock had ever met in his life, and certainly nothing Sherlock deserved.)  

  



which all twisted up into a sensation very much like his internal organs had just gone supernova.

He cradled the precious little custard dish in his hands and whirled around to face John. "Show me where," he demanded.

John cracked open one eye at Sherlock and tugged up his shirt to show a white square of gauze taped over the left side of his abdomen, at about the level of his navel. Sherlock went to his knees next to the couch and stared at it reverently.

" _Don't_ touch it," John warned, just as Sherlock lifted a hand. He opened his other eye. His expression softened. "Maybe in a few days. With gloves on."

Sherlock liked this thought: them, in bed, naked, except for himself with blue latex gloves. "How long until the sutures come out?"

"Mmm. Three weeks, maybe. Still in rather a lot of pain, here, so please don't create any opportunities to dash about for the next few days." John closed his eyes again. Sherlock remained crouched next to the sofa, his chin on the cushion next to John's hip.

"You're on painkillers," he accused.

"The good stuff," John agreed. "I _did_ just perform minor surgery on myself, Sherlock, please give me some credit."

Sherlock pictured John sitting on the kitchen table, a sheet draped over himself, wielding a scalpel and forceps. He imagined John making a neat little incision, opening a tiny red wound, like a mouth, cutting through skin and pale connective tissue, down to the fat, and was struck with the sudden urge to weep.

It must have shown on his face, because next he had John's fingers in his hair. "Hey," John said, softly. "What's wrong?"

"I love you," Sherlock said miserably.

John chuckled. "And I love you, or I wouldn't have done this. God, we're both crackers, aren't we? Now go on. And don't make me watch, please."

Sherlock had agreed to listen to John before, during, and after this event, and so he obligingly took the custard dish upstairs, to his room. He shut the door behind him and peered into the dish. Inside was a tablespoon, perhaps two, of small, shining lobules, the colour of corn, connected with strands of paler tissue. He held it to his face and inhaled deeply. Here, now, was the true scent of _John_ , underneath the pheromones and aftershave and scented shampoo. It smelled rich and fleshy and a little bit like blood. He wanted to write it on his bones. He _would_.

And then, slowly, because this was the sort of thing that happened only once in a lifetime, Sherlock tipped his head back and tilted the contents of the custard dish into his mouth.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Cinnamon Peeler Series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2084835) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




End file.
